Richard Madeley

Sitting next to a former Conservative party bigwig at dinner, I ask if he thinks the Tories will be OK at the next election as long as they deliver a reasonable Brexit. ‘Not a chance,’ he says. ‘We’re totally fucked.’ What, even if May stands down once the deal is done? ‘Even then. The kids want Corbyn. The bloody 30/40-somethings want Corbyn. They don’t care or even understand about all that horrible IRA stuff, or Marxism, or nationalisation. After a couple of years of Corbyn government, they’ll get it. Too late by then. But at least the pendulum will swing back to us three years later.

Politicians’ determination to dissemble is getting worse. Are they sent on courses teaching obfuscation? Since returning to daily TV I’ve discovered that MPs are more skilled at dodging questions than ever before. Infuriating to listen to at home — but if you’re the questioner being shamelessly blanked or blocked, the response (in my case, at least) is visceral anger. I try not to interrupt someone if they’re actually attempting, however ineptly, to answer a question, but I won’t tolerate duck-diving. I call offenders out on it as soon as I realise they’re trying it on. So far on GMB, I’ve had ill-tempered exchanges with, among others, Nigel Farage and Sir Keir Starmer.

To ITV’s London headquarters at the ungodly hour of 3.30 a.m. Piers Morgan is sunning himself in Beverly Hills and I’m sitting in for him on Good Morning Britain. I’ve known and liked Piers for 30 years, from the days when he used to scribble for the Mirror’s showbiz page, and although we could hardly be more different we do have one thing in common: we’re both television Marmite. People either like us or loathe us. But in the mysterious, perverse alchemy of TV ratings, detesting a presenter doesn’t necessarily mean shunning their show. Viewers enjoy shouting at their bêtes noires, so it’s all good for business.

If only I’d known. If only I’d foreseen that the teenage classmate who strode through our school gates every morning, rolled-up Daily Telegraph tucked incongruously (and insouciantly) under one arm, dark leather trench-coat flapping rhythmically in sympathy with the long, swaying black crows-wings of shoulder-length hair, square-heeled boots clicking and clacking their way into morning assembly… if I’d somehow intuited, as I say, that this lanky 15-year-old with the questing, beaky nose and rimless glasses, this proto-goth, would one day be Chancellor of the Exchequer… Well, actually, I wouldn’t have been remotely surprised. I don’t think any of us who knew Philip Hammond back in 1971 at Shenfield School in Essex would’ve been.

Oh God, it’s happened again. Another evening where I’m surrounded by people I know personally or have interviewed, and I can’t remember a single name. Multiple blanks. It’s a sort of self-fulfilling nervous tic — a phobia, almost. We were at a fundraiser at our kids’ former school in north London. For some reason, lots of celebs send their children there, including Jonathan Ross. He once joked that it’s the only school in London with a permanent posse of paparazzi hanging around outside the gates. Anyway, a veteran actor with grandchildren there strolled over for a chat. After he’d wandered off, I looked at my wife in mute appeal. ‘Tom Conti, for fuck’s sake,’ she sighed. ‘You’re bloody hopeless.